


Indebted

by Hero_of_Denerim



Series: Originals [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Surface Dwarf Origin, Surfacer Origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hero_of_Denerim/pseuds/Hero_of_Denerim
Summary: My attempt at a Surface Dwarf Origin.At the beginning of the day, Atarne might have craved a fight. Her mind changed once the night fell.





	Indebted

They had packed up camp early this day. Only a few more miles until they would reach Orzammar’s gates, and their client was becoming increasingly restless. As was she. While the Frostbacks were not nearly as dangerous as many people painted them to be in their tales, her group still had to run into anything since they had begun their track up the mountainside. Wolfs, mountain lions, bandits, even ghouls… Somewhere one their way they should have met anyone to fight.

Atarne knew she should not complain, as they followed the well-trodden pathway. It was boring, but better for them in the end; they received as much coin for less work, and they would not have to spend it on expensive potions and repairs. Lucky for them, only few travellers knew, and many kept hiring them; they would be out of business within a week otherwise.

And yet, she was itching for a fight, or a brief skirmish at least. The blood splatters on the handle of her war hammer had seeped into the wood long ago, it seemed to her. It did not help that she knew it was safer this way. Some of their patrons could not help themselves, desperate to prove their heroism; they tended to get in the way, or in the way of her maul. They were not so heroic after that.

She spat to the side. It was not her fault they did not stay out of the fray, despite their warnings. If those contracts were not as profitable… Well. It was not her decision to make. Lasgrim called the shots.

And as long as he did not make a deal to work for the Carta, it would remain that way.

She forced her thoughts out of her mind with a sigh. She had made it clear what she thought of it, and he would not dare to lose her.

Instead, she looked ahead. Soon, they would arrive, and get their share to spend however they pleased. There was a dent in the side of her armour she really needed to have fixed… Maybe someone had smuggled new weapons to the surface. Or ale. She would be satisfied with either. Better than wasting her entire cut on dice. Atarne shot a glance over her shoulder. Everyone but Eska seemed to have realised the game was rigged from the start. And it was certainly not because they had not told her often. What were they supposed to do when she would not listen?

She sighed again. It was not her place to judge her, and it certainly was not the time for it, either. While it was a quiet day, she was spearheading their party, and her attention should be focussed on their way ahead. With Lasgrim and Worta securing their flanks, and Eska bringing up the rear, they formed a ring around their client. The formation was casual enough for them to break out of it without effort, but it ensured the safety of their patrons, and with that, their payment. It was tried and tested.

Taking point was her favourite place to be; she would be the first one to throw herself at potential attackers this way.

Eska always teased her about it, that she was craving death more than life. It could not be further from the truth, of course. At no other time she felt as alive as she was in the heat of a fight. Her blood pumping through her veins, power surging through her being… Nothing else in this world gave her what a battle could.

She threw a glance over her shoulder and scoffed. Something this cowardly arse would never understand; how could one call themselves a dwarf, whether born in Orzammar or above ground, and pay others to do their fighting for them?

Their client, and others before him, as it seemed. Seated on top of his pony, he tried his hardest to distance himself from them. As if he was better than them, just for having seen the insides of the Frostbacks. As if interacting with surface dwarves could lower his standing. He kept so much to himself, she did not even know his name. Not that she particularly cared about that. The only thing she knew was that he was clearly not out here voluntarily; so, they did not want him down there. It made her chuckle. A small comfort, when having to deal with this kind of client, but it helped.

They had travelled with merrier folk, both humans and dwarves, and had shared tales from past adventures whenever they rested. Her party members loved boasting about their exploits almost as much as she loved to fight; and in turn, the merchants showed them tricks, or gave them small vials of potions or poisons. She still preferred to be on a hunting trip, but they made their presence bearable.

Not their current patron, however. He even avoided to look at them, and it only served to make her smirk more. He was as much a surfacer as they were, whether he wanted it or not. And it was only proof that he was as dense as the Stone itself below the mountains that he could not embrace the beauty and freedom that was the surface. The catacombs her people called home would never be appealing to her. Those stone-heads seemed to like breathing stale air, as all those dwarves born underground attested her. All except Worta, maybe, but still…

And clearly it did not foster sanity; she had only heard of few of the many laws and restrictions the dwarves imposed on themselves, one sounding more fabricated than the one before. Even worse, anyone seemed to defend them, no matter how ludicrous their caste system was. Life on the surface was tough, and merciless at times, but it was her decision to live it, and hers alone. The notion of her life having been decided on her birth was infuriatingly ridiculous. It was difficult to imagine anyone would want to live that way.

Yet she knew their client would go back to Orzammar to throw himself at the gates, begging for them to let him back in. He was too stubborn to accept his fate; she might have respected that. If he was not desperate to return to the prison that the underground kingdom actually was. Pitiful. He would not be the first one to do so, from what she had heard, and certainly not the first to be denied entry.

A noise snapped her out of her thoughts. Stones were loosened somewhere above their group, and lazily rolled down the slope towards them. She lifted one hand as a warning for the others, and stopped; her other hand was already reaching for her maul on her back. Behind her she heard the metallic scrape of weapons being drawn.

Atarne squinted. Their path wound around the mountainside, until it would lead to Orzammar. At this altitude, only a little scrub grew here around gnarled, long dead trees, and the occasional outcroppings were blocking parts of their way. But the path was old, and the rocks were crumbling in some places. It might have been a fox…

She was about to press on when a brief flick of sunlight blinded her. Someone had moved, and whoever it was, they had more than just pebbles and sticks.

Eska was quicker to notice it than she was. “Bandits!” She rushed past their client and past her, diving to her side to evade an arrow. When she got back up, she held her daggers clutched in her hands, and a small smile played around her lips. “Protect our client!”

With a wide grin of her own, Atarne unhooked her massive hammer from her back, a weapon as long as she was tall. Then, with a loud roar, she charged up the mountain, Eska following her closely; she knew the other two would stay put, and fight of anyone that slipped through.

The group was smaller than anticipated; an archer, two swordsmen and a throat cutter. Barely worth the effort, if they had not started the skirmish. How did they plan to take on four armed dwarves?

As she closed in on them, she noticed they had not planned anything at all. Their mismatched armour was cheap, but not as cheap as the weapons they held. They were young, and scrawny, and just fighting to survive. Just like she had been, years ago.

She banned the pity welling up inside her from her heart. If they were not smart enough to gauge their foes’ strength, they would learn it the hard way. Instead, she spun around, and smashed her maul into the closest swordsman; his cheap cuirass gave in and caved inwards, leaving him gasping for air. As she swept him from his feet with by aiming for his knees, she felt daggers fly past her, followed by sharp outcries moments later. Eska never missed her target.

The brief distraction was enough for the swordsman to get back on his feet, yet his eyes were blown wide open, and his sword was trembling inside his hands. Atarne grunted, and dropped her hammer. She ducked to her side, evading the sword he clearly could not wield, and knocked him out with a well-placed punch onto his nose. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his limp body collapsed into a heap.

She picked up her maul, scanning her surroundings for the remaining bandits. One of them was cowering on the ground, holding her shoulder. Blood spluttering through her fingers, and her face was grimaced in pain as she rocked back and forth, whimpering quietly. Next to her feet lay a bow, snapped into two pieces.

Eska had launched herself at the other swordsman in the meantime; she had grabbed his collar, and had yanked him down to her height, so she could press her dagger against his throat. It had something comical to it, the awkward way the human stood. She was whispering something into his ear, and while she kept a straight face, he did not. Eska was threatening him, and whatever it was, it quite obviously worked.

Atarne shook her head, still grinning slightly. Everyone had their set of talents; Lasgrim brokered their contracts, Worta charmed friend and foe with his silver tongue, and Eska was as intimidating as she was short. She herself just liked hitting things.

But her thoughts quickly returned to the skirmish; two bandits pacified and one occupied, that meant one was left. She whirled around, to stare into the cutthroat’s surprised face who had tried to sneak up to her. Her hand was raised above her head, clutching a dagger that looked more like a dull kitchen knife. She froze like this for a heartbeat, when Atarne bared her teeth in a malicious grin, her eyes widening in shock. Then, she dropped her dagger and turned tail, leaving her party behind.

At least one of them had some sense of self-preservation instinct. She grunted, and fastened her maul on her back. Alone, and with gear that cheap, she doubted she would make it far, though. Highwaymen should know how to fight, and how to gauge if fighting would be worth the loot; a lesson those kids had learned, she could only hope. If not, the next group they ambushed might not be as merciful as they were.

She watched Eska send off the frightened swordsman, who stumbled towards the archer and together they followed the path the cutthroat took, albeit hobbling, and slowly. Their unconscious companion was left on the ground, forgotten.

Esak waved for the others to come up to them, and wiped her dagger clean on her breeches. Neither of them spoke while they waited; it had not been the kind of fight she would boast about, nor the kind she had wanted. They stayed silent when they others had joined them, and for the rest of the way.

The path turned into a paved road just a few hours later, and they began to hear barkers praising their wares. Almost there.

Atarne gave a nod to one of the sentries they passed. Their band was well-known here, and, despite being surfacers, even respected; without them, and others like them, Orzammar’s commerce would have dwindled significantly. Or so Lasgrim had told her. She could barely care less about cave-dweller politics, or the cave-dwellers themselves. However, it did help to weaken the black market, and subsequently the Carta, and about that she cared greatly.

She had watched them destroy countless lives; they came after innocents as well as their own members when the leaders believed they had slighted them in any way. And she would never forget how they took her mother from her all those years ago. She ground her teeth. Despite always having paid on time, despite almost having their debt repaid in full with interest. Despite all of them working hard to get the coin on time, one night one of them had slipped into their home and slit her mother’s throat. Her father had not been the same since, and neither had she.

She unclenched her fist; her nails had dug themselves so deeply into her palms she could still feel the pain lingering. No. The Carta deserved every little bit that was coming for them, and she would not stop until they were no more.

They followed the noise, until the road made way to the market square right before Orzammar’s gates. Atarne did not wait for Lasgrim to finish off their contract, but strode towards the tiny stall at the outer edge of the place; the only place that sold drinkable ale. It was a thin, watered-down brew, but it was cheap, and served its purpose well enough. They would not make their way back down before the morrow, and she intended to make the best out of it.

She signalled the barkeep, and, once served, took a swig from her tankard. Then, she leaned against the counter, and let her gaze wander across the square. Barely anything had changed since the last time they had been here. How long had it been this time, two weeks? Three? Nothing really seemed to change here…

She shook her head, pushing the sudden bout of melancholy from her thoughts. Instead, she searched the area for her party members. And she quickly did; mercenaries tended to stick out against the fell and leather clad merchants.

Lasgrim negotiated the final details of their pay, and judging by his grin to his advantage. Good. That meant more ale and better steel for her. Worta was engrossed in a vivid discussion with a man she did not know, but then again, he knew half of Ferelden and then some. There was still so little she knew about him, even after years of travelling and fighting together; she had stopped asking questions long ago. She did not spot Eska, however, which told her everything she needed to know. Taking another pull from the mug to silence her groan, she walked over to Worta. She only hoped she did not have to bring all of Orzammar’s fortune to bail her out this time.

Both looked up as she approached them. Worta grinned, and clapped her onto her shoulder. Even the stranger smiled kindly, white teeth shining through his black beard, and he inclined his head.

“Atarne! We were just talking about you!” He gestured between her and the human. “This is Duncan, a Grey Warden. We’ve been… companions years ago.

“He was interested in finding new, capable recruits for his order and,” his grin grew even wider, “while I understand that dwarves are naturally the first ones to seek out, and that they would be lucky to have you among their ranks, I told him we could not spare you just yet.”

She eyed Duncan briefly. Well-kept but battle-scarred armour, plain daggers hanging from his belt, secure posture… He knew how to fight, that much was obvious. And Grey Wardens… The name rang a bell, but she could not quite place it. She smiled nonetheless.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Duncan.”

“Likewise.” He shot a glance towards the massive stone gate behind them. “But I need to hurry, unfortunately. I’d rather they let me in today.” Duncan shrugged apologetically.

“Ah, of course! Business is business after all. I wish you better luck with those stoneheads!”

After they watched Duncan leave, Worta snatched her mug from her hands and sniffed at it.

“Now, lass, where’d you get that ale? Could use some to wash down the- ah! Lasgrim! Squeezed every bit of coin out of the poor sod, didn’t you?”

She turned her head just in time to see Lasgrim smugly stroke his ashen beard. “Not all of it, but enough. Here,” he pressed a soft leather pouch into her hand, “your cut.”

Then he motioned towards Orzammar’s entrance. “Making new friends as usual?”

“Eh, catching up, more like.” Worta weighed his pouch in his hand. With a satisfied whistle, he pushed the tankard back into her hands, so abruptly she almost dropped it, and strode towards the other side of the place.

Lasgrim watched him go, then shook his head before he turned back to her. “And Eska is… Oh.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll hold onto her share for now. Maybe you should go and check on her. We can’t afford her to put us into trouble again, here.” He passed her and walked a few steps, but paused.

“If she doesn’t get that under control soon…”

She narrowed her eyes, even though she was aware he could not see it. As if he could, though, he did not finish his thought; he only shook his head again and walked off to find a place to camp for the night. Still, she stared after him, watched him pitch his tent and disappear behind the flap.

It was unusual for Eska to stay away for that long, on that much she and Lasgrim could agree on; the sun had begun to set and there was still no sign of her. She never had enough coin on her to gamble through more than a couple of games, let alone an entire evening.

Atarne drained her tankard and threw it over her shoulder with a sigh. Then, she walked towards their camp and began working on her own tent as well. It took her longer than usual, because her thoughts were spinning around Eska and where she could possibly be, but despite that, Eska did not turn up.

And no-one else seemed to know where she was, either. The charlatan who ran a small dice game told her that she had been there, yes, but had left shortly after, with her coin purse empty. It took all the composure Atarne could scrape together to not wipe that smug smirk from his face with her fist. Even though she wanted to, badly.

No other merchant here entertained gambling, however. She kicked a pebble out of her way. Where only could she be?

Dusk had passed, and the night had settled over the square. The few torches the scattered sentries held barely illuminated the square, and without one herself she would not find a tree if she stood in front of it. She considered asking one of them; a favour for a favour. But she knew they would refuse, and so she sulked back towards her tent. At first light, she would wake the others, and make them help her.

“You better pay up. Your friend can’t do it anymore.”

She whirled around, to face a dwarf casually playing with a dagger. Only the lower part of his face was visible, as the rest was covered by his oversized cowl; but in the dim lighting she could barely make out more than dark stubble and thin lips.

“What?”

Atarne reached for her hammer only to grope at air. Of course she had left it in the tent now!

“You heard me.” He twisted his lips upwards into a sly grin. “The Carta always gets her cut.”

Hands outstretched, she lunged towards him, but he effortlessly evaded her grasp. When she looked up again, he had disappeared into the darkness.

She spent the remaining steps to her tent trudging forward slowly, and staring into the darkness; she could not help but feel the darkness stared back. Exhausted, she crawled into her tent. Both bedrolls were empty, as she had expected. Atarne lay down on hers, and despite the dread that had begun to settle in her guts, she eventually drifted off to sleep.

 

***

 

“Wake up!”

Hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.

“Ancestors! Atarne, please, wake up!”

She opened her eyes with a groan. Darkness surrounded her, and for a fleeting moment she believed it to be a dream. Until her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and focussed onto the panicked face before her. With a yawn that was more for show than for necessity, she rubbed the last traces of sleep out of the corners of her eyes.

“Eska?”

The other dwarf nodded impatiently. Her face was showing a tension unlike any before.

“Where have you been? I’ve looked all over for you everywhere this side of Orzammar’s gates and didn’t find-“

“Quiet,” Eska hissed, and firmly pressed a hand over her mouth. She paused for a moment, and another, before she lifted it again; the warning glare she shot her was not lost on her, though.

“I’ve run into trouble, Atarne.” She cleared her throat, but was visibly startled by it. “Real trouble. And now they’re looking for me.”

“You’ve… what?”

Atarne sat up, and Eska scooted back to make room. She has never seen her friend this disturbed before, not once in the years she knew her.

“Atarne, please! You’re the only one who can help me!”

“Calm down.” She grasped for Eska’s hands and firmly took them in her own. “It’ll be fine. I will help you. Just tell me what happened.”

Eska drew in a shaking breath. Even the day they had picked her up from the side of the road, battered and bloody, she had not been as frightened as she was now. Atarne gently rubbed her thumbs across her palms, even after her breath became more steady.

“I’ve been playing at Uldor’s place, as usual. I thought this time- this time might be it!” She swallowed, and cast her gaze downwards to her lap. “But I lost. Badly. Someone saw and- and told me I could win it all back at a better game. And I believed him and the first round went really well and they said I should bet anything and so I did and-“

Her voice broke, a tiny wail escaped her lips.

“And?” Atarne prompted after a while, though she already knew what she would say.

Eska looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“And I lost again and again and again and then they said I should pay but I didn’t have anything and-“ She drew in another, rattled breath. “They were Carta, Atarne. I’ve lost my life to the Carta!”

Sobbing, she pulled her hand back and buried her head underneath them. She rocked back and forth, her shoulders trembling.

Attarne stiffened, but pressed her rage back down. Instead, she gently stroked Eska’s hair. The Carta was always involved somehow. She should have learnt not to be surprised at that anymore, not even a little bit.

Before she could say something, however, Eska suddenly looked up; her already fearful expression turned into sheer panic.

“They’re here. Oh Ancestors, Atarne! They are here!”

Now she heard them, too. Low voices rumbling somewhere outside of their tent; they were just quiet enough for their words to be unintelligible. The sound of weapons being drawn was not difficult to understand, however, nor were the many, many footsteps. It were too many to count.

She grabbed her maul, cursing under her breath. There was no time for her to change into her armour, so linen and leather jerkin instead chainmail. Not the best way to start a fight, but she had started with worse odds and still made it.

Eska whined silently at her feet, cowering on the floor like a newborn babe.

“Keep down,” she whispered, and stroke her hair until her breathing had slowed again. Only then did she crawl towards the tent flap. They might need to stay clear for a while, but it would turn out alright in the end. It always did.

She heard shouts, and dragging her hammer behind her, she pushed out of the tent.

They were outnumbered ten to one, at least. A mob had formed, surrounding their tents as far as she could see, and they were one wrong move away from attacking them. Or one command. And those weren’t kids like those bandits have been the day before. They were cutthroats and alchemists and berserkers, and they were clad in fitting armour.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lasgrim and Worta stood with their backs against their own tent; but she knew Lasgrim’s crossbow would take too long to reload, and it was too late for Worta’s honeyed words.

Guards were there as well; they stood among the Carta thugs, with their weapons also directed at them. They looked slightly confused, sure, but determined as well. Behind one of them she saw this grin. His hood still masked his eyes, but his grin she would recognise anywhere.

And her rage kicked in. Her vision turned red, and with a ferocious snarl she swung her maul above her head and leapt into the group before her. Their weapons cut through her clothes without effort, and even pierced her flesh, but she shrugged it off. There was no room for pain when she was full of rage.

She faintly registered screams around her, muffled by her own pulse throbbing in her ears; it could be fear, it could be pain, it could be anger. She cared about neither. It certainly was not enough to tear her out of her rage, and neither was pain. Each swing with her hammer brought her multiple wounds, and yet she kept going. She knocked those who were agile or lucky off their feet, and shattered the bones of those who were not.

As sudden as the bout of rage had come over her, as sudden it was gone; exhaustion and lack of sleep made her stance weak, and her arms too tired to even lift her maul. It dropped to her side, missing her foot by a mere inch.

Immediately she felt a blade at her throat. Its pressure against her skin alone kept her standing, even though her knees shook under her weight, and she began to feel light-headed from the blood she had lost. But she kept standing, with the last shred of strength she had left, and she kept her head upright.

The guard before her held her gaze, albeit with an underlying sadness she could not quite read, not in her state. Until she cast her gaze downwards, onto the mangled bodies on the ground. Yet, she felt no guilt. She stared back into the guard’s eyes. They had threatened her.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Everyone turned their head towards the source of this casual remark. Atarne squinted at the figure that came closer. Dark-skinned, dark beard… Though her mind worked slowly, she recognised the human she had met the day before.

“This is none of your business, human. Be on your way, and leave this to us.”

“I’m afraid I that’s not quite true.” He calmly stepped over the corpses until he stood next to her. And while the guards were hesitant to lower their weapons yet, his confidence gave them pause. “What happened here?”

Atarne’s gaze darted between the guards and her companions; the latter still stood pressed against the fabric of their tents, but with a few more open cuts and slashes than before. The ground at their feet, however, was flattened, but empty.

“These mercenaries gave refuge to a known criminal, and refused to hand her over so she could be judged for her deeds.” The guard who had spoken out sheathed his sword and stepped forward. “We don’t have many laws around here, but we punish those who break them. Harshly.

“Now, human, if your curiosity is satisfied, let us handle this matter.” He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. to bring home the point he left out of his speech.

“You accuse her of being a criminal when you took orders from the Carta?” Some of her strength returned, together with her fury. She looked around. “From a syndicate whose agents have already left the scene? Eska, tell them what really happened!”

Atarne whirled around, hoping for support. But the only thing she saw was their trashed tent. The linen had been slashed, and the poles had been broken.

“No…”

She leapt forward and fell onto her knees, rummaging through the heap of fabric. Everything else was forgotten, because she needed to find her. But beyond the tatters that had been her bedroll she did not find anything.

Her shaking hands dug into the pile of cloth. Tears mixed with partly dried blood and dripped down her chin in translucent, reddish drops.

“They have taken her.”

She turned, a shred of linen still clutched in her fists. Her whole body was trembling now. Blood and spittle flew from her mouth when she yelled at them, “They have taken her!”

“As you can see, human, she is as deranged as she is dangerous. Let us judge her and be on your way.”

Duncan did not respond for a while. She glanced up towards him, just in time for him to narrow his eyes. Or at least she thought he had.

Then, she hung her head. She had promised to help her, promised to keep her safe. And she had failed her. Why would anyone, human or dwarven, would save her?

Her tears had dried, leaving crusted streaks on her face. It would be a mercy if they just killed her, here and now. Egoistical, but a mercy. That way she would not have to worry about Eska anymore…

“If you will not release her, I must invoke my right as a Grey Warden to conscript her.”

Atarne looked up, as did the others. Out of the corners of her eyes, he saw some of the guards stick their heads together and whisper among themselves; even their captain seemed to be caught off-guard. But she only stared at Duncan, dumbfounded. The guards had understood his words quicker than she had.

“Surely you want to reconsider.” The captain shifted his leg awkwardly; his unease was almost palpable. He motioned towards the corpses on the ground. “You can see clearly what she is capable of.”

“I have.” Duncan nodded towards her. “And in trying times like these, we need someone as capable as her. And,” he lifted his hand to keep the guard from speaking, “I will personally remove her from your responsibility.” He looked down to her. “If you are willing to become a Grey Warden, that is.”

She nodded lamely. It was easier to accept death when there was no other way. Now, getting away from here did not sound half bad.

The guard squinted at her, and then at Duncan. “And you promise to keep her away from here?”

“I will. Unless Warden matters come up we need to attend to.”

“Aye then. One less scoundrel to deal with.” He signalled the rest of the guards to resume their posts. After shooting one final, doubtful glance towards her, long enough to make her think he had something to add, he only shook his head and walked back towards Orzammar’s gates.

Atarne still stared at Duncan, reality slowly sinking in. She would not die today. Today would not be her last day. It dawned on her that she should probably say something.

“Uh, thank you. I owe you my life.”

He chuckled grimly. “Don’t thank me yet. Being a Warden is seldomly a favourable hand dealt by fate.”

She picked up her maul and spit a clump of blood to where it had stood before. Then she looked back up and shrugged. “You just gifted me more days to live and a purpose to live them for. That is more than I could’ve asked for.”

She looked to her side as Duncan started their way down the path; there was no sign of Lasgrim and Worta. Their tent was still standing, unlike her own, and a few trinkets littered the ground around it, but the dwarves themselves were nowhere to be seen.

Not that she cared overly for either of them, she tried to tell herself as she caught up to Duncan; they would find their way, with or without her. But Eska… Atarne clenched her jaw. Once her business with the Wardens was over, she would find her.

And she would make the Carta bleed.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, there are just too few dwarf origins out there. Or fleshed-out dwarves, for that matter. It's as simple as that. I also really wanted to write someone who enjoys fighting for a change, and not has to because they are The Warden now. Because there is nothing wrong with liking to fight (at least, in the Dragon Age universe please don't punch random peoples on the streets!) 
> 
> I also thought this would make me better at writing fighting scenes. ~~I was wrong.~~ But at least I got it out of editing hell so there's that. 
> 
> Still waiting for dwarven mages though. C'mon Bioware! Give me some in the next game. Or the next book. Or the next comic. Or HoDA. Or the next tweet seriously I'm easy to please at this point!
> 
> Besides that, feel free to drop a comment or leave kudos if you like! They are always appreciated :)


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